“It was Mr. Abbott’s bedroom, and after his death it was closed,” answered Corbin. “But lately Mr. Paul has used it as a sitting room. He told Martha it made him feel that his father was nearby and he wasn’t so lonesome.”
Trenholm viewed the caretaker in silence for a moment. “So Mr. Paul used to sit there, did he?” he asked, and Corbin contented himself with a sullen nod of his closely shaven, bullet-shaped head. “And when were you last in the room?”
“This morning.” Corbin dropped his eyes that Trenholm might not read their expression of relief at the change in the trend of his questions. “I went in to make up the fire for Mrs. Nash. There’s the telephone, sir.”
“I’ll answer it,” and turning on his heel Trenholm hastened into the living room and over to the telephone.
In an instant Corbin was gone and Miriam almost rubbed her eyes, so swift were his movements and so noiseless. Pausing long enough to pour herself out a glass of water and drink it, she followed Trenholm into the living room. The sheriff was still at the telephone and she walked over to Paul Abbott’s desk and sat down before it, intending to wait until Trenholm was disengaged.
Miriam was idly playing with one of the silver desk ornaments when she saw a package of envelopes lying on the edge of an open leather bag, which stood on a stool by the desk. Near at hand was an empty scrap basket. Again Miriam’s gaze sought the envelopes. They were oddly familiar. Stooping forward she took up the package and fingered them. In quality of paper, in quantity of stamps, they matched the half-burnt envelope which she had picked up in her bedroom twenty-four hours before. Her envelope was securely locked in her grip, but she vividly remembered the Canadian postage stamps, orange in color and five in number.
Miriam looked across the room at Guy Trenholm. He was still talking at the telephone with his back turned to her. She was oblivious of the fact that she was distinctly visible to him in the mirror hanging just before him on the wall.
Miriam studied the handwriting on the topmost envelope—it bore Paul Abbott’s name and address. Swiftly she examined the address on each envelope—it was the same—then counted them—eleven in all. Miriam’s thoughts reverted to the black crest on her torn envelope. She turned over the eleven envelopes—the flap on each was missing.
“Miss Ward.” Betty Carter’s voice just over her shoulder made her start violently. “Will you go to my aunt at once; she needs you.”
“Certainly.” Miriam was conscious of Betty’s cold regard; but there was no hurry discernible in her movements as she replaced the rubber band around the envelopes and laid them back on the top of the open bag, which, she noticed for the first time, bore, stamped upon it, Guy Trenholm’s initials.